Three Sides to Every Story
by Jedi Skysinger
Summary: As the old saying goes, there are three sides to every story: yours, mine and the truth. But, on the streets of Miami, it's only hers, his and theirs that matters. A series of one-shots or 3-part multi-chapter stories that explore the same subject from Fiona's POV, Mike's POV and both of them together. Chapters are named for the episode during which the story takes place.
1. False Flag

_**As the old saying goes, there are three sides to every story: yours, mine and the truth; but, on the streets of Miami, it's only hers, his and theirs that matters.**_

_**()()()  
**_

_**Hers**_

It was scorching hot outside, a completely expected condition given her locale near the beach. This was Miami and it was nearly summer after all. There was only a minimal breeze now, which did nothing to negate the stifling reflected heat coming off the concrete sidewalk and nearby blacktop that was A1A as she perched stiffly on the hard, hot wood of the bus stop bench, staring intensely at the passing traffic, her mind reflexively cataloging the flow of people and vehicles even though her focus was elsewhere.

Her forest green mini dress was short and sleeveless, and caused no small amount of stir amongst the male passer-by's, but she was still hotter on the inside than her body had a chance of being on the outside. The sulfurous thoughts rampaging around in her head warred over who she was angrier with: him or herself.

_Damn him! _Right at this moment, the former spy was winning that particular contest.

Michael, and Sam for that matter, had been acting weird ever since this new client had come along. _Michael Westen had let something distract him from pursuing his burn notice?_ _Since when?_

He'd had the necessary papers in his hand to go get his new identity. It meant the freedom he needed to go to DC, to confront Phillip Cowan, the man he said had ruined his life, and suddenly Michel would rather _meet with__ a client? _

The fact that Sam had sputtered some nonsense about Michael needing yogurt and practically dashed out of the loft when she'd questioned him about Evelyn pretty much told her that even _he_ knew everything she didn't really want to know. So much for the improvement in _their_ partnership, though it was not surprising that Sam would cover for him.

Fiona shifted uncomfortably on the bench and contemplated hitch hiking for a moment. There were certainly enough options available. She'd gone out armed and prepared as always, so safety was not a primary concern. She was actually debating whether running into some trouble would be a good idea. It might help her blow off some steam.

On the other hand, she might injure someone a little too seriously while working off her pique. Ms. Gleananne had no desire to add time spent in county lock-up to the list of things she hadn't planned on doing today. Riding the bus was enough of an unanticipated inconvenience. Still, she'd deal with whatever life threw at her and get some fun out of it somewhere, somehow. _She_ wasn't helpless or needy... or even pretending to be, unlike this new client.

She'd let curiosity get the better of her when Michael had asked for backup. Apparently, Sam was off pursuing some new leads as to where Evelyn's husband might have taken their little boy. Mr. Westen had explained the situation to her on the drive from her condo by the Intracoastal to the beachfront hotel where his client was staying. While she was always on board when it came to rescuing a child from an abusive parent, there were too many things in this story that just weren't adding up. It really bothered her that he apparently didn't see this. Was this new client _that_ attractive?

Securi-Corp wasn't cheap and neither was the beach front hotel they were heading to. So, where was a suddenly separated stay-at-home mommy getting her money? But since it appeared that she _did_ have the money to hire Securi-Corp and stay in such an expensive place, why hadn't she done something else with her money, like hire her own private detectives or better yet a high priced lawyer to resolve her custody issues, instead of waiting around for Lucy to contact Michael to take the job?

Evelyn's connection with Lucy was troublesome as well. She just _happened_ to meet Lucy because she _heard_ Ms. Chen worked for a big security firm that _might_ be able to help out? Except of course the job was too small for them.

Fiona was as much a fan of fortuitous circumstances as the next fellow, but she'd learned the hard way that if something looked too good to be true, it was best to shoot it, just in case.

_"Ooooh, the damsel in distress."_

_"She said it was an emergency. What do you want me to do?"_

_"Be her knight in shining armor, of course."_

She'd tried to temper her sarcasm with a smile and it seemed to work for the moment. But Fiona could see that this case was hitting too close to home for him, even if he couldn't. Madeline had never come out and given a blow by blow, so to speak, recounting of Michael's childhood, but his mother had said enough for the fiery Irishwoman to fill in the blanks. She wanted to kill his father all over again. Taking that together with what else didn't add up in this case, it seemed that Michael was being targeted by someone with resources and skills and that was never a good thing.

A thundering diesel engine propelling the city bus down the road spewed tiny flecks of oil in its noxious exhaust fumes as it rumbled by, scattering her thoughts momentarily as she checked the route displaced on the front. No, dammit, this wasn't the one she was waiting for. Hailing a cab was starting to look better and better. Ms. Glenanne blew out an irritated huff of a breath and checked her watch. Five more minutes to go.

_"Evelyn, this is Fiona. We work together."_

She was used to the way he introduced her to everyone. Even back in Ireland when Michael McBride was actively pretending to be her boyfriend, he never would verbally acknowledge their relationship in public. Yes, she was used to it, but it still pissed her off, most especially now.

As soon as the sunglasses had come off and the tall buxom blonde had started blathering about emergency custody hearings and vague numbers of multiple assailants, Ms. Glenanne knew. And it was clear Mr. Westen didn't.

The makeup job wasn't even that good. She'd done better herself with an eyeliner pencil in the field. But if he couldn't or wouldn't see that he was being played, then what was she supposed to do about it? She certainly wasn't going to stand there and watch while Michael fell for the emotional blackmail as Evelyn, or whoever the hell she really was, was blubbering into his shirt.

_"What happened to the trademark Westen emotional distance?" she had demanded as soon as the door to the Charger closed. She had wanted to slap him so badly, but she knew the blonde was watching their every move._

_"She was upset."_

Even now as she was remembering it, she couldn't believe that he'd fallen for the act and he _certainly_ had no compunctions about hurting _her_ feelings.

_"Obviously," she snipped. "Where's your head at?"_

_"Fi, if you're gonna help me, you can't have this attitude."_

And there it was, Fiona fumed. Michael wasn't seeing what she was seeing and he had written off her reaction as jealousy. _Seriously? She_ was a Glenanne woman, dammit! She didn't moon over men like some love sick puppy.

_"Attitude? If you're gonna be like this, I think I'm entitled to an attitude."_

_"Maybe I should do this one alone then."_

Maybe he should do a lot of things alone. Why the hell was she wasting her time trying to get through his thick skull?

_"Maybe you should."_

_"I'll drive you home," he declared, clearly dismissing her as well as her tactical analysis._

_"No, I'll get there myself."_

He hadn't trusted her. That's what infuriated her and that's what had just plain hurt like hell. After all they'd been through back in Ireland and all they'd done together here in Miami, that's what it came down to. Michael could put his life in her hands time and again, but all it had taken was some tearful trollop with a sob story for him to break faith with her.

Cat calls from a passing car interrupted her reverie momentarily. She didn't have any trouble getting male attention, just a particular male's attention, and she'd had to work _very hard _to get _his_ attention. And she had thought she was achieving some small measure of success in renewing their former relationship recently.

That's why she was here in Miami, to discover if there ever had been anything _real _between them, to see if she could get through to him while he had to stay in the same spot instead of running away. She didn't understand him at all. He'd always made it clear that his job was the obstacle in their relationship. Well, he didn't have a job now, so why was he so damned determined to keep her at arms' length?

_"We were profoundly unhappy." _That had cut deep. She was only unhappy because the man she had trusted with her heart had turned out to be an American spy. It had taken no small measure of forgiveness on her part, but once they had gotten past that issue, she'd thought they were working well together again.

That is, until he had snuck away in the middle of the night. _Coward!_

Still, they were becoming the friends they once had been in Dublin and then they had become reacquainted on a much more intimate level. A tiny smile played on her lips despite her frustration while she remembered their first night in the loft, the renewal of a passion that always lingered just below the surface waiting for the spark that would set them both on fire.

Then Fiona flushed hot, a combination of indignation and injured ego making her long to commit an act of destruction, as one memory led to the next. She might as well have vanished the moment Bly'd handed Michael his burn notice file.

She stalked past him completely naked to the shower, washing away the sting of rejection along with their sweat and his sweet scent on her body. He never even looked up from that damned dossier as he mumbled his goodbyes when she left, banging the door on her way out.

In a city of over four hundred thousand crammed into thirty six square miles, shouldn't there have been a violent crime being committed somewhere that she could conclude for the better?

Fortunately, the former IRA operative didn't have to wait long.

Immediately in front of her, stopped in the line of cars that were ever so slowly snaking their way down the two lane blacktop, sat a smart looking white compact with the windows rolled down being driven by someone's grannie, who was sweating bullets behind the wheel. This was not the best part of town for someone her age to be sitting trapped in a car like that, exposed to the heat and the opportunists who might…

"¡Fuera!"

They had rushed the car from both sides after weaving silently through the stopped traffic. The one nearest Fiona had a cheap pistol tucked in the back waistband of his loose fitting denim shorts which became exposed as he leaned in through the window of the passenger door to open it. The other one threatening the Hispanic senior citizen with a knife on the driver's side continued to scream obscenities and demands at her while she tried in vain to figure out how to resolve her very sudden turn of bad luck

Fiona had no problem at all discerning how to turn the woman's fortunes and her mood around. She practically leapt off the bench. The strong lithe woman grabbed the young man by throat with her right hand, slamming the back of his head on the upper door frame as she jerked him out of the vehicle, and relieving him of his gun with her left. A swift application of the confiscated weapon to his temple and a brutal kick to his ribs left him staggering away from the scene.

The other youth stood and met her predatory gaze over the top of the vehicle before his abode colored skin took on an unhealthy pallor and he quickly dropped the knife as though it had burned him. Throwing up his hands, he backed up and then ran away from the automobile and its sobbing occupant as quickly as he could.

"Good to see you again, too," Fiona called after him, remembering that she'd sold the Beretta she'd taken off of him in the MIA parking garage not long after acquiring it from him. Perhaps this would teach him not to car jack people; at least not while she was around, anyway.

She went swiftly to the other side of the car. Traffic was trying to move again and people were getting curious. Ms. Glenanne assured the woman in her proper Castilian Spanish that it was alright and they needed to go now. The shaken elderly lady had moved over into the passenger seat, clearly trusting Fiona to continue to take care of her and the situation.

_Someone she'd just met and rescued had had more faith in her and her abilities than Michael had_. In between explaining that she was taking her neita's car to the shop to have the air conditioning fixed, the grateful grandmother had continued to thank her profusely for saving her and the Toyota.

"No," Fiona assured her, still feeling the adrenaline rush course through her veins and sooth her hurts. "_Thank you_."

()()()

_**His**_

Michael sat in the cafe, staring into space. He had his back to the road, though he wasn't unaware of the pedestrian and vehicular traffic that flowed there. Still, it was a poor tactical choice and it highlighted his distraction to himself.

_This, this_ was why he avoided getting into any kind of relationship that didn't have some sort of professional connection. Even his friendships, which had been few and far between to begin with, had started for job related reasons. Of course, since he'd been burned, his options for friends or associates had gotten very small: Barry, Sam, Lucy and Fiona…

So, there he was, waiting on Sam to show up to help him with the case Lucy had gotten him involved with in return for a huge favor and Fiona…

And Fiona….

And…._Fiona..._

He'd taken what he thought had turned out to be wise counsel from a surprising source after Ireland when he wasn't sure how to move forward. He'd done as he'd been advised and put his feelings in a box, the good as well as the bad.

He'd learned that he could take the warmth and the sense of belonging he'd felt only in her presence and store it away for when he needed it, just like he'd learned decades before how to bottle up the pain-fueled rage and hatred, and put them to good use, too. It wasn't just that Arabic celebrity magazine that had gotten him through those three days in that Riyadh storage facility.

As long as there was time and distance between him and Fiona, he could open that box, add another precious layer of intimate memories to it and close it again, keeping them safely to himself. It allowed him to do his job and it allowed him to let his guard down with her on the rare but welcome occasions when he saw her again during the last ten years.

But now he had no job to order his life and that aggravating, enigmatic, intoxicating Irish woman kept refusing to stay in the box. He remembered the feeling that had hit him squarely in the chest with great clarity as he'd watched her ascend that rusted metal stairway, washing away all the sake and the hormones in one huge wave of panic.

They weren't headed to a hotel, or a safe house or a deserted building, a place where they could carve out a moment of happiness and then go their separate ways. They were headed for what was, for the foreseeable future, his home and the thought terrified him. He'd taken the first excuse he could think of to push her away, a totally cruel and lame one at that, and he'd felt like crap for doing it. Still, he was thanking his lucky stars he hadn't ended up like the drug dealer's hired muscle as a result. He'd spent the rest of the time whilst finding an appropriately abandoned alley way in which to stash the unconscious behemoth thinking about what had happened between them in Dublin and more recently in Berlin. He still remembered feeling the swish of the blade as it had passed almost too closely by his face.

_"Fi, do you remember when we were together? We were profoundly unhappy. I still have scars to prove it. You remember?" He had pointed to his chest and then his arm. "Dublin? Germany?"_

Michael knew that Fiona had known back then there was something wrong, that something was off between them but she couldn't piece together what it was and _that_ made her profoundly unhappy and she kept pushing, kept trying, determined to figure him out.

Which in turn had made him profoundly unhappy because Fiona Glenanne had become more than an asset. Because he had come to hate lying to her and her family every day. Because he hadn't known what he was going to do when the mission was over or what he'd do if, more likely when, she'd find out that he'd betrayed her. Because she had made him feel things he hadn't felt ever and, because of that, she was tearing away, bit by bit, the scar tissue that he had layered over his wounded heart and his secret yearnings for decades.

_"No. Fi…As unhappy as we were, I don't think there's anyone I could be with that would make me happier than you." _

With Fiona, there were more things he longed to feel and things he was terrified of feeling because they made him vulnerable and there was nothing Michael Westen hated more than feeling vulnerable.

"_I don't know if that's good enough." _

_"It's not."_

He might have been the one to initiate their return to intimacy, but as soon as he had opened that door, Fiona had kicked it off its hinges. Though in fairness to her, he hadn't exactly tried to board up the opening either. He hadn't fought her all that hard when she'd seduced him on the kitchen floor after Perry Clark had tried to garrotte him a few days back when he'd given her the Makarov on her birthday and _he'd_ been the one to follow her into the shower, giving them both a present as it were.

It had been only natural when he'd accidentally found her in between removing her street clothes after the tuna with tahini lunch and putting on her bathing suit that afternoon that something other than a day at the beach had resulted. While he had gratefully accepted her invitation to lunch that day, knowing that she was working on forgiving him for the dossier disaster, spending time sunbathing with the rest of the tourists on Miami Beach was never really ever in his mission parameters under normal circumstances.

But these were far from ordinary circumstances and he'd felt guilty about the way he'd treated her after Bly had delivered the information he'd fought so hard to get. Of course, that hadn't stopped him from bringing it with him to lunch either. Even though it was everything he'd wished for, it had made his life much more complicated.

"_I just can't believe it's the only thing on your mind these days."_

"_Fi, I know we haven't talked about what happened the other night. It was—well, you know what it was. But I—there was a reason why it didn't work before—"_

"_We were in a war zone. This is Miami, Michael."_

But she was wrong. _He was_ in war zone just the same as they had been back in Belfast. As long as he was out in the cold, he was a moving target with no good Intel as to who was shooting at him. That meant everyone around him was in the kill zone as well.

Though missions were not comfortable walks in the park, he'd had training, he'd known what the big picture was and he'd had an entire government backing him, but not anymore. _This_ was why he needed to keep his relationship with Fiona under some kind of control. But she was going to keep pushing and testing him with the emotional equivalent of artillery fire.

"_I didn't think we were in a relationship, Michael."_

He hadn't wanted them to be and yet, sometimes, that's all he could think about and that was dangerous. But he also realized that there was going to come a time when he was going to have to watch her be with another man, just like she had rubbed it in his face with Thomas McKee daring him to prove that he cared, because he couldn't be the man she wanted him to be. Michael McBride had died a decade ago.

Agent Westen had left him bleeding out on the bed next to Fiona's sweetly slumbering sweat slicked form when he'd gone to meet with Liam Glenanne that night, knowing full well what that encounter would probably mean. He just hadn't realized that he'd be out of the country within the hour when he'd left their apartment that evening. Making dinner and desperate love to her had ensured that she'd stayed asleep and it was all the apology he could offer in advance.

The shuffle of familiar feet behind him alerted him to Sam's presence before the smell of Old Spice and gun powder did. His friend took the seat next to his, practically crowing.

"Okay, Mike, tell me I'm a genius."

"You're a genius," he agreed mechanically, still wondering what this latest breach of faith with Fi was going to cost him.

"Come on, you can do better than that," the older man urged. "Remember the mail we were sorting through at Doug's place? Outdoor Life, Field and Stream? Got me thinking. Outdoor types always go back to the woods. So I got a hold of a buddy of mine, he's at the Coast Guard, he knows a guy at Park Service, and hey there's a couple bottles-"

The story ended with a location: Mangrove Park. Michael jumped from his seat to give Evelyn the good news. He'd drive straight to the Keys and they would get her son back. At least _that _was something he could fix.

()()()

_**Theirs**_

Fiona came down the stairs none too quietly and then announced that Doug was sleeping peacefully. He quickly concluded that she'd helped their new client achieve that state of unconsciousness and she'd confessed to doing so quite unrepentantly.

Michael focused on the table laden with gun parts and cleaning supplies, stealing only brief glances at her while they discussed their preparation for tomorrow's operation. He knew what was coming and saying 'sorry' was not one of his favorite things to do.

Growing up, an apology was always demanded, but virtually never accepted. It was just part of the ritual that preceded the beating, the proverbial salt arriving ahead of the wound. After he'd gone into the army, it was not much different. The focus was always on ensuring that you never had anything to apologize for.

"Great," she smiled, now that all was as in order as it was going to get for the night. "We can talk finally."

"There's nothing to talk about. You were right. I was wrong. I'm sorry." There, he said it.

"It isn't that simple, Michael. You think you can let the job be who you are, all you are, and you can't." _When was he going to understand that being a spy had been what he did, not who he was? Any more than being an IRA guerrilla was all that she was. _"It's dangerous to think that you can."

He pulled a face and concentrated on the hardware in his hands.

"I know I can be... passionate..." she continued. Several definitions of the word drifted through both their heads simultaneously. "But I'm good at what I do."

"I know," he agreed. She'd seen right through the ruse and he'd been blinded by Evelyn's obvious attraction for him. If it hadn't been for that hairpin in his wallet, they wouldn't be having this conversation right now. He laid it on the table.

"It's no secret that things between us have been-"

"Little rocky," he assented quickly, already not liking where this conversation was headed.

"It isn't easy for me either." Fiona still wasn't sure what upset her the most, that he had so casually disregarded her abilities or that he'd done so thinking that it was because she viewed the blonde as a rival for his affections. "Evelyn comes along and she's attractive...sweet, needy. Don't deny it."

"Fine," Michael said curtly, giving her a glare. _This was getting embarrassing. _He'd been played by an attractive woman who turned out to be an assassin with an obsession. Okay, so, sometimes, maybe he did have tunnel vision.

"Isn't it interesting that she turned out to be... well, who she turned out to be? What shall we make of that?"

His words from earlier came back to him. _Just couldn't help yourself, could you? _As well as her reply, _Sadly, no._

"Made your point, Fi."

She was entitled to her attitude this time.

"Did I?" she countered.

He just wished she'd quit rubbing it in.

"Yep. You did."

Even if he did deserve it.

"What about DC? You still going?" _Perhaps now he'd listen to what she had to say._

"I have to," Michael declared. "If I don't, it won't be long before Cowan sends someone _else_ down here to kill me. I need him to know I can get to him too. I need him to know that right now."

"And you need help." He needed her and they were both well aware of that fact. "And you know it," Fiona stated confidently as she gave him a sidelong glance. She was going to make him say it.

"I don't think that's a good idea," the dark haired man returned, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Is that a, a tactical judgement or a personal one?"

"Both," he said firmly, slapping the clip into his repaired weapon and looking her straight in the eye. "Everybody I know is in danger right now- everyone I'm close to."

If anything happened to Fiona because of _him_... He couldn't tolerate that.

She held his gaze for a long moment. It was also intolerable that he could be hurt over trying to protect her. When would he understand that they were better, safer, together than apart? She picked up the hairpin slowly and held it up to him, hoping that he would get the message, and hopeful that his slow slight smile meant that he had. She wound her hair into another loose bun.

"Well," she drawled slowly, securing her hair with the implement that had saved his life. "I'm willing to risk it."

It was plain Fiona meant more than risking taking on the people who had burned him. "If you are."

Michael drew in a long breath and sighed. He did need her and he did know it on a tactical level. But there was that other level, the one they had been on in Ireland. The one she wanted to take them back to. The one, if he was truthful with himself, he wanted to be on with her.

But, unfortunately for both of them, he would never admit this to her because he never admitted it to himself. Years of secrets and deceptions both growing up and in his job had made Michael an accomplished liar. Sadly, the only thing he was more skilled at than lying to other people was lying to himself when it came to his feelings.

Denial wasn't just a river in Egypt and self delusion about painful facts wasn't the only thing he learned from his mother. He just deluded himself about different things than Madeline did.

He shook his head slowly. "We can't- I can't afford to risk it, Fi. And neither can you. Not right now."

"Michael," she whispered, her eyes were a heart breaking mixture of defiance and defeat.

"We should, should try to get some rest. We're going to have to leave before dawn. You can have the bed," he informed her as he rose quickly and started to turn toward the balcony doors.

It was her turn to sigh heavily now. "There's room enough there for both of us," she pointed out, meaning it in more than one way, ways that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trust and intimacy.

"I know," he said quietly. "I just need to get some air."

As she watched his retreating back, she felt as far away from him as she had when the Atlantic Ocean was still between them.

()()()

**A/N: **Much thanks and luv to Daisy Day, Purdy's Pal and Amanda Hawthorne for reading thru parts of this and to amazing Amanda for quick BETA. Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review (and fav and alert) and who did groan out loud when I started yet another series ~ LOL! All is very much appreciated. Next up will be Hard Out/Eye for an Eye. Less than two weeks until Season6. Burners, start yours Chargers!


	2. Scorched Earth Hers

_A few minor details regarding scene settings were pulled from clips of 6.01, but I haven't revealed any new characters or plot elements or upcoming dialogue. The rest is all my own speculation._

**()()**

**Hers**

They're here.

They'll have her surrounded when they emerge from their hiding places.

The part of her that is still an IRA guerrilla bristles at the thought of walking openly into a trap.

Lamb to the slaughter...

No, not that- a willing sacrifice.

She came of her own free will. She has no intention of trying to escape.

Once upon a time, the number of armed FBI agents and SWAT team members they sent to contain one tiny Irishwoman would have amused her.

Today having a reputation is not a good thing.

At the top of the stairs, she hears him.

"Fi!"

She'd thought it was her mind playing tricks on her, the sound of him yelling her name in desperation, as she crossed the sidewalk and alighted the courthouse steps. It dredges up memories of other times, times when he was frantically calling her, times when she was almost taken away from him, memories of fires, of gun battles and of drowning.

Now she is drowning in sorrow, but she won't let that keep her from finishing what she came to do.

Through the glass doors, she makes eye contact with an agent pacing in the lobby, probably the one she spoke to on the phone.

She dares to turn around and look at him.

"Fi!"

It's just as she feared. He's not here to join her, to tell them the truth. He's here to try to stop her.

_"You are just delaying the inevitable. There is __no__ happy ending!"_

She turns away from her center of universe and faces the tall man in the gray suit.

"Fiona Glenanne?"

"Yes. I'm here to, ah," the word sticks in her throat, "surrender."

She forces herself not to react as her body longs to when he raises his firearm and she's staring down the barrel of his gun.

The scene explodes into chaos. They swarm from their places, surrounding her, pointing multiple weapons in her direction. One wrong move. . .

She turns around now as ordered, hands behind her head, and cannot help but look at him. This will be the last time they see each other until...

He tilts his head to the side as he stares back, a well-known gesture of exasperation. Only this time, there's anguish in his beautiful blue eyes.

_How can I make you understand?_

She stares back at him, caught in his gaze and caught in the web of Anson's lies with nowhere left to go except to put an end it.

Then she sees it in his hand. Suddenly, as if he realizes what he's been holding, where the answers must be, he unfolds the crinkled note.

He stands there, reading her letter.

Every word is carved on her heart.

They could carve it into her headstone when she was gone.

She's seen him in pain before, but there was that certain look that he got when _she_ has caused the hurt. Time seems to freeze as he stands there on the curb side. The people around her, surrounding her, they're just part of the background.

Yes, _she_ is causing his pain.

It reminds her of the water running down his face that night as he'd pressed his cold, shivering and rain soaked body against her, it reminds her of the look in his eyes as he'd taken hold of her sandy and bleeding wounded arm and she had cried out.

But that was nothing, a pin prick, a scratch, a flesh wound, compared to the searing agony of watching him destroy himself.

_"If I have to plant this thing, if I have to burn them, I will find a way to fix it. I've broken into CIA computers before I can do it again. I will find a way."_

Jesse had been a mistake, though one he perpetuated and the price had almost been her life. But Michael, Michael Westen, deliberately burning fellow operatives-?

_"How many people will you destroy if you can't?"_

The price is too high. The price of her freedom is nothing compared to his soul.

_"What do you want me to say, Fi? I'm doing this for you?"_

Something sparkles in the sunlight as he looks up at her again, as the vehicles move between them, cars full of people going on with their lives, people not knowing, not caring, that their life together is over.

It reminds her of his expression another time she'd thought their lives were going to end, his face as he tried to push her away one last time to save her in that abandoned hotel, his eyes brimming with unshed tears and regret.

_Is that what the light was catching? _

_Tears on his face? _

She watches as the yellow paper flutters gently to the ground, leaving his suddenly lifeless fingers.

_I love you, Michael. Forever._

How is it that had they had never gotten around to saying that to one another?

She turns away then, forced to look ahead as the FBI agent takes her by the arm and propels her forward. Her armed escort closes in around her.

She takes one last look at the man who's captivated her, heart, mind, body and soul, fresh tears and denial leaking from those haunted blue orbs.

And then he is gone.

Her wooden wedges clack a staccato beat on the polished stone floor of the courthouse, intermittently drowned out by the sound of a radio-transmitted voice announcing how dangerous she is. She's always prided herself on her reputation for being fierce.

Until a young girl looks at her with frightened eyes and a nervous mother pulls her child back in fear.

"_I'm not a monster,"_ she wants to assure her. _"I'm trying to stop a monster."_

She stands frozen in place as a large brunette in uniform lays hands on her with blue plastic gloves. No one touches her without her consent—not since that black day- and now, today.

She holds herself stiffly, keeping herself aloof from what is happening to her. She refuses to let herself think about the only touch she permits, the only touch she welcomes.

That brought her up short as her fingerprints are being scanned into the computer. She had permitted another man's touch once, not because she desired it, but because he had withheld his.

"_You left, Michael. You had a choice to make and you made it. I always thought, maybe, when it came down to it that- but you didn't.__"_

How many tears, how many years...? All gone by because he wouldn't let go of his job, couldn't stop being a spy, wouldn't cease his dogged pursuit of the people who burned him, couldn't relinquish his feeling of responsibility to the noble purpose, the nameless, faceless people he served while he ignored the ones right in front of him, the ones who had his back every day.

"_I'm free of the people who burned me. I'm clear of the cops. This is the moment I've been waiting for.__"_

How many times did she almost walk away from him, only to come back again because he needed her, because she couldn't say 'no' to her heart?

And yet, how many times had he pushed her away? After all they had been through, how could he let her go without a fight? Had she meant so little to him?

"_You're too worried about your own future for there to be one for us.__"'_

How many days, in how many ways, had she longed for him to put her first?

Until the day it happened.

"_There is no line when it comes to you!__"_

Until the slight sound of the handcuffs being closed penetrated her consciousness.

Until the tearful face and the loving embrace of the moment before evaporated and she realized just what lengths he was willing to go because she _was _the most important thing in his world.

"_I'm sorry, Fiona__.__"_

**Be careful what you wish for…**

She sits in the hard chair, wrists shackled to a metal bar on the table. No amount of dislocating her shoulder is going to get her out of this chair. It had been a long walk down the hall, surrounded by FBI agents and SWAT teams. The memory of the little girl's face still cuts her.

She's been searched, photographed, finger-printed and booked. Soon, someone would come to interrogate her. Soon, she will be able to do what she came here to do.

She wonders if this is what had happened to him when the FBI arrested him after he'd stopped Simon from killing Management. She wonders if someone will come and take her from the FBI's care and lock her away into a dark hole as they had done to him. Could Anson still reach that far?

Or would they get the chance? Would the British, whose consulate she'd blown a hole in, come and claim her at long last? Carry her back to England and lock her away forever before he could-

She swallows thickly and tries to push away her last memory of him, of their time together, not daring to think of when or if she'll see him again. She had to do it. _She had to__!_ She couldn't watch him destroy himself over her anymore.

_No_, she thought defiantly. When the CIA had taken him after their last stand against Vaughn, she'd fought against thinking the worst. She would do so now as well.

Maybe she could end up as cell mates with Vaughn, she ponders briefly. The slight smile thinking on the unlikely event brings to her countenance is strangely out of place under the circumstances. She owes Vaughn Anderson some quality time with her knuckles for what the dark man had done.

She remembers when he had returned from his weeks of imprisonment, his distressed embrace and the feeling of being momentarily frightened as he shivered in her arms. Then he was back, back to the business of stopping them from hurting anyone else.

"_He's going to hurt more people. __A lot__ more people.__"_

How many times had she gotten angry with him? She'd been so frustrated, though it included equal parts fear and loneliness, when he would insist on leaving her behind.

She even said it to him once, when he had returned home for a brief moment a few months into the manhunt for what turned out to be Anson's organization. She had been almost passed out, bruised and bloodied and stinking of spilt liquor, all the results of having to rescue Sam on a job that had gone completely sideways.

Guilt washes over her briefly. He'd tried to tell her, tried to tell anyone who would listen that it wasn't over. Perhaps if she had listened to him then- but she had wanted it to be over, no, needed it to be over, so very badly. Well, now it was.

When he'd had to leave again the very next morning, she'd wished aloud that he knew what it felt like to be the one left behind. So often, it had felt like Ireland all over again.

She puts her head down on her arms. _Now she is hurting him_ to defend people she doesn't know and would probably never know.

Behind her closed eyes, the image returns. His face is a mask of sorrow, his eyes damp as he shakes his head in denial.

"_We star__t down that road, we can't come back and I'll lose you and I can't lose you."_

The words she had longed to hear. And now he knew her pain. And she knew his.

…**Because you just might get it.**

**A/N: Hoping to have this finished by Thursday (fingers and toes crossed). Thanks to everyone who favorites, alerts and reviews! It is ALWAYS appreciated. Thanks to amazing Amanda for the quick BETA and to equally awesome Purdy's Pal and the utterly incredible DaisyDay for reading thru and much love to the PCC. Thanks again to Amanda for all the awesome spoilers that inspired this piece!**


	3. Scorched Earth His

_Potential minor spoilers alert - A few minor details regarding scene settings were pulled from clips of 6.01 and an S5 deleted scene now out on DVD was used, but I haven't revealed any new characters or plot elements or upcoming dialogue.__ The rest is all my own speculation. Thank you very much to LaLavande for reminding me to do that. While we're here thanks to the lovely ladies in the PCC for reading through parts of this and to everyone who reviews, fav's and alerts! Listen to "Gone" by Daughtry while reading for the full effect, but bring tissues.=)_

()()

**His****.**

Betrayal.

In the whirlpool of thoughts and emotions that swirled around him, threatening to engulf him and take him under, that word kept rising to the surface. The more he was mentally pummeled by the myriad of feelings he didn't know how to process, the more still he became and more that concept kept reiterating itself.

He sat in his father's black muscle car, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest and the flexing of jaw muscles made taut by clenching teeth. It had been his car, the Charger, but just now, for some damned reason he couldn't even begin to explain, psychological ownership had reverted to his father.

He briefly remembered the first time he'd ridden in this car. Another trip to the hospital, dislocated elbow that time. It was also the first time he'd had to do the lying himself when the medical personnel asked about what had been done to him instead of his mother handling that duty once they'd arrived in Frank's new car. He had been six.

Betrayal.

He'd felt it early and often in his life. Growing up in an environment of danger and paranoia was the perfect preparation for being a covert operative, though it made for a complex relationship with the past under the best of circumstances. Once again, he resorted to filtering his past through the lens of the benefits of future career training. It made it more bearable.

The image of his mother's smoldering cigarette butt lying on Frank Westen's grave kept flashing through his head and, as it was one of the least objectionable things his mind had presented him with so far, he went with it.

When he let himself think about it at all, which was unusual and bespoke of how bad his other contemplative choices were at the moment, there was an ongoing internal debate over whom he was angrier with: his father for being the drunken asshole or his mother for continuing to subject them all to him.

A tiny part of him still felt betrayed that she had never left his father.

"_He was a bad man, Michael. But even he had his moments."_

But, in all that time, over all those years, she'd never once laid a hand on him. That had been his Dad's job.

_"I didn't want you to get hurt."_

Paradoxically, his attempts to shield people from harm were generating quite a bit of it for himself lately. Truthfully, it was shock of it, not the slap itself, which had hurt. He'd been hit harder by Fi-

He refused to think about her. Thinking about his mother's unexpected blow was surprisingly less excruciating.

_"Get out. You had no right to keep that from me. Get out! Get the hell outta my house!"_

How ironic that after all those years of begging him to come home that she'd thrown him out of the house that day too. Well, his mother never was one for doing things in half measures. Two "first times" in one day somehow seemed appropriate.

Still, it was odd that they would have patched things up at the cemetery, but then again when was anything in the Westen household or his life ever normal?

His brother had rented a place in Daytona Beach without his direction and his mother was voluntarily leaving town for a week to work things out, while he was working things out in Miami.

"_How do you get used to this?"_ He'd meant it on more than one level.

His mother had reaffirmed again how different their relationship had become while he was sighting in the sniper rifle in her garage just a few days ago. Somehow, right now, it seemed like a lifetime ago. _Her lifetime_.

He expertly pushed the thought aside.

_"All those years I was gone, when I never called, part of the reason was so something like this couldn't happen. So the people I loved couldn't be used against me."_

_"For a long time, I didn't understand that. I apologize, honey." _

So it had only taken twenty eight years to get him and his mother on the same page. Of course, she couldn't just let it go at that.

_"Michael, one more thing. You can't always save everybody."_

But it wasn't an "everybody" he'd been trying to save this time. As he considered whose sniper rifle he had been adjusting and where he had taken it next, another thought slipped past his defenses and launched a front assault.

Would it take twenty eight years to get on the same page with Fiona?

If she only got a ten year prison sentence, maybe so. If he'd let her shoot Anson, maybe not.

Or maybe this whole sorry mess would all be over right now if he had.

Like a dragon without its head, would the organization fall?

Or, like a hydra, would it grow two in its place?

It certainly had seemed that way as he had fought against the machine these last five years.

Betrayed.

He'd felt betrayed by his government, by the people he worked with, by the people he worked for. This was his reward for twenty three years of loyal service to his country? He couldn't, he wouldn't, believe that. For so long, he had chased the answers to his questions:

"_Who did this to me? Why was I burned?"_

Now he knew exactly who had burned him, how they had accomplished it, what they wanted from him and why they had done it. Anson Fullerton had explained it to him in exacting detail.

That knowledge had not brought the closure he had expected or even hoped for.

Now he knew. He had all the answers and it _still _wasn't over.

**Be careful what you wish for...**

He'd faced down Phillip Cowan and they shot him. He turned Victor into an ally and they had shot him. Carla had become his enemy and Fiona had shot her. Simon was more creative, he blew up Gilroy's car and Gilroy along with it. He'd tried to convince Max it wasn't over, that it hadn't died with Kessler.

And they had shot him, too.

All he wanted was his life back. All he wanted was to know that his sacrifices had meant something. He wanted someone to tell him that the nightmares he saw when he closed his eyes helped other people sleep at night. He just wanted his world to make sense again.

He could still feel that smarmy bastard standing behind him, taking it all in, all his weakness that he had shown to only one other person.

_"If he does come in, what then?"_

_"I think you have the answer to that in your right hand."_

He took a deep stuttering breath and looked from her note in his left hand to his SIG in his right. So much death, so much adversity, so much tribulation, so much _pain_….

So much betrayal.

That was the look on Dani's Pearce's face when he turned around after seeing the surveillance video when she thought that _he_ had murdered Max.

He couldn't bring himself to think about what her expression would have been when Jesse destroyed her laptop and Agent Pearce found out what he'd done this time, how he'd sabotaged the Agency, how he'd lied to her again.

_Because he couldn't bring himself to care._

Because as hard as he tried not to think about the fiery redhead, _she does just what she wants to again_, and shes pushes her way into his consciousness just like she pushed her way into his heart, into his soul, into his very being.

_"Ruined your life? I gave you a life, Michael. You were alone. You hadn't talked to your family in years; the love of your life was lonely and abandoned in Ireland, not sure if you were dead or alive. Look at what you have now. Wanna throw it all away? Can you throw it all away?"_

He couldn't.

Betrayed.

She'd let him know in no uncertain terms that's how she'd felt when he'd shielded Anson. There was a part of him that couldn't believe he'd saved that sonuvabitch either, a part of him that was just as repelled as she was by what he'd done, but the part that was frantically trying to keep her safe had won out.

Betrayed.

That's what her expression had said in the loft. It had started as confusion as she tried to comprehend what he was doing and then disbelief as he had explained it to her and finally, as he went to the door bidding her goodbye, it was plain on her face: betrayal. It reverberated in the air and cut through his heart as she alternated between screaming denials and screaming his name.

He pushed those thoughts away with a violent shake of his head.

No, _she_ had betrayed _him_.

She hadn't trusted him, hadn't given him the time he'd asked- no, begged and pleaded for- to work things out. All he needed was a little more time. All he ever needed was a little more time... She hadn't believed _in him _when he promised her he would find a way to fix it. She hadn't believed him when he said he could make it right.

_"There's a reason you have to be everyone's White Knight, Michael. You left because you thought if you saved the world, you'd be safe at home."_

He'd left home to save his sanity. If he got to save the world in the process, was that so bad? Was it such a bad thing to never give up, to never give in?

_To never surrender yourself?_

He'd told her. She hadn't heard him. She couldn't have heard him or she'd still be here with him now, trying to figure out how to make right, instead of giving up on him.

_"I should disappear and you'll be able to bring Anson down."_

_"And you'd keep running for the rest of your life. Not after all this. I am not losing you, Fi."_

It wasn't saving the world that made him safe. Hadn't she been listening when he told her he needed her, needed her to be his safe place, the place where life made sense? How could she have heard him and still taken that away with her, away from him?

Except he'd told her with his eyes, with this hands, with the way he had touched her, loved her, but he'd never actually said it, had he? But she had known how he felt even if he hadn't said it. He had the proof in his hands.

_I love you, Michael. Forever._

He'd given her his heart, just like she wanted, just like she had asked all those years ago. All those times he had left her behind, to chase his answers, to protect her, to protect himself, all those times he had walked away from her had come back to haunt him because now, NOW that she WAS the most important thing in his life just like she'd wanted,

She had left him behind.

_Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!_

It was so much easier to be angry with her than miss her. Being angry with her was familiar, almost comforting by comparison. Her breach of faith, her betrayal he could deal with, hadn't he done the same to her in the past? But her loss, her absence, her non-existence in his life for the foreseeable future, _that_ he could not deal with.

He looked again from her note to his 9mm. He hadn't felt so lost or hopeless since Chechnya. Larry's latest visit had succeeded in resurrecting that long banished demon. But as bad as that had felt at the time, part of him thought breaking free of Larry Sizemore was child play's compared to just trying to function without her.

No need to thank Larry for that. She had done that for him with a block of RDX. She had finally done what he could never bring himself to do. Dead Larry was finally _dead_ Larry. He swallowed reflexively, remembering the utter relief of holding her in his arms again when he expected to be dead, despite what he'd just seen the lobby, despite what he thought she'd done.

He shoved that feeling away with all his strength, biting his bottom lip and screwing his eyes closed.

Betrayal.

There was one more betrayal, one bitterer than hers. They'd been at odds enough in their lives that, even though what she'd done shattered him to the bottom of his soul, there was a tiny part of him that felt she'd done it just to be obstinate, just to oppose him. So, while utterly devastating, once it had happened, it was not completely unexpected.

But this...

_"Fi, we gotta leave, we got... Sam! Sam, what happened? Where's Fi?" _

_This!_

_"Mike, I came back. I saw what you did with Fi. She wanted to call ya__.__ She begged me, said she just wanted to use the phone for a minute. Eventually I gave in and took her purse over to her and she, she clocked me with a bottle."_

He'd been too busy that the time calculating what had to be done to prevent her from turning herself in. Subconsciously, he knew things didn't add up. He'd been a covert operative too long to miss all the little details that were wrong; details that had coalesced into a portrait of collusion, though he had been too laser focused on getting to the courthouse in time to stop to her for it to matter then.

Sam's betrayal had hurt the worst because he'd thought his friend understood. He had trusted Sam, not only with his life over the years, but with the love of his life. Hadn't he left the two of them together, time and time again, while he was gone to look out for one another?

Hadn't he just asked Sam to keep an eye on her one more time, to keep her from doing just what she'd done? _How could Sam let her get the drop on him like that and let her escape after all he'd done to prevent her from surrendering to the FBI? _

The accusations died away as his brain suddenly hit the rewind button.

_Hadn't he left the two of them together, time and time again, while he was gone to look out for one another?_

Who had betrayed who?

"_Don't look at me, I don't get it. I don't get why you're so dead set on getting back it. Why go back to work for the people who've put you through all this?"_

"_I want to clear my name. I want to know who did this to me. I spent my entire career doing something I believed in, Fi. Something important."_

"_You're doing something important here, Michael. Think about it." _

…**Because you just might get it.**

He'd wanted his answers, he'd wanted his job back, but the one thing he needed more than anything had just slipped through his fingers and left _him_ behind.

And now he knew her pain. And she knew his.


	4. Last Rites Theirs

"Will you relax, Criminal? You're wearing me out just lookin' at ya."

The rest of what Ayn said disappeared into the red haze that was forming. She had broken Anson's hold over Michael, but apparently not his reach. She'd already foiled one of his assassins. When she found out who it was this time who was trying to kill her, she was going to tell Michael and then- But Ayn wasn't giving her the name, she was stalling, she was-

_She was going to talk!_

"Quit with the games. You tell me his name _now_!" Fiona demanded, finding her hand clamped around the woman's throat as she slammed her up against the bars.

"Easy now, I'm trying to protect both of us here. I can't have your broadcasting the guard's name over the visiting room phone. Okay? Just write down what you want your boyfriend to know. I'll make sure it gets delivered. Works better for both of us."

That made sense. Of course, what had she been thinking?

She'd been thinking she couldn't trust her, that's what. She'd been thinking that if she didn't tell him herself, he'd never know. She'd already trusted someone in here who'd ended up trying to drown her in a kitchen sink. How could she trust that Ayn was not trying to set her up as well? But the woman was right. If she did tell him over the phone, a monitored line, it would only tip _them_ off that she knew.

She'd just have to trust her for the moment and pray she was right this time.

"Sorry," Fiona muttered, lifting her hand to her own throat as she stared back at Ayn's direction, though not quite meeting her gaze.

"Yeah, well," the dair skinned woman drawled, adjusting her neck where Fiona's hands had been a moment before. "Place changes all of us sooner to later. Looks like sooner for you."

And she left the Irishwoman alone with her thoughts.

()()()()()()()

He'd manage to finally shake off what had happened last night and compose himself, though it had taken hours. Years of suppressed tears which wouldn't take 'No-I-won't' for answer anymore had come flooding out. That was why spies didn't have friends and family, they just had assets and co-workers. He'd forgotten how much this could hurt, no wonder he had avoided it at all costs.

Yes, he had been comfortable is his self contained, needing-no-one life.

Comfortably numb, that is. Surrounded by adrenaline inducing circumstances, but carefully insulated from it all. None of it touched his heart, touched his soul.

Who the hell had he been trying to kid? Himself? God?

Neither one of them was buying it anymore.

When he'd come out of the shower, he'd found a carry-out box containing a breakfast sandwich in line with his lean tastes in meat and a still steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee from a diner that Sam preferred.

Michael appreciated the fact that Sam understood his need for solitude right now almost as much as having more than yogurt to carry him through the morning. It was a long drive to Allarod and he had to be there early.

His improved mood over Sam's steadfast support lasted until he was about twenty minutes down the road headed towards the prison. It had been him, Sam and Fiona against the world for so long that it was both good to have the help, but disturbing to have other people in the mix, taking the place that she had once occupied.

There was a time when he would have choked before having Nate and his mother join a mission. Now he was grateful for their assistance. He shook his head slowly, as he sipped his coffee with one hand and held onto the steering wheel with the other. He had a quick flashback of Nate backing him up while his mom sat there, demanding answers before agreeing to go to the Bahamas.

At least he'd been able to help Pearce get some closure after eight long years, although he'd done it with selfish motives. He wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that she'd have never gotten that opportunity if Anson Fullerton hadn't been trying to get her to ruin her career in a bid to obstruct his path to freeing Fiona.

"_I get it, Westen, but some things are more important than a career. You're not the only person who ever lost somebody."_

If Kimberly Danielle Pearce, one of the most by the book agents he knew, could figure that out, why had it taken him so long to get it? This led him to wonder what it was Jesse had said to her to get them back in her good graces so quickly?

"_I had a hard enough time convincing them not to send a team after Mich__ael! You know it's not lost on me by the way that no one told me about him until now."_

It had apparently been lost on him that there was a connection between them that had been formed during their previous mission on the Bahamas. It wasn't Pearce and Porter with them for the most part, it was Jesse and Dani. Pearce had been furious with him for weeks in the wake of Max's murder investigation and yet somehow Jesse had been able to explain destroying her laptop and everything else in such a way that she had actually sent backup to help him instead of arrest him?

There'd been a time when Jesse had wanted to kill him for getting him burned and now the man was spending his vacation days hanging out with Mexican drug cartel enforcers and overdosing on prescription drugs to help him, despite the fact that he'd blown up his leased Porsche a couple of times. But it had been Fiona who'd saved that relationship with his mother's help; no one else could have done that. He owed her so much, so much more than she had gotten from him over the years.

Fiona and his mother, even Sam, had pointed out to him that he was kind of oblivious when it came to his family and friends. But now that Fiona was gone from this life, he understood why that was. He had taken them all for granted.

He just assumed they'd always be there when he needed them, didn't think about them or their lives except where it intersected his. Part of it was his training and part of it was his personality, but it had been wrong, all wrong, of him to treat any of them that way. That was why he had almost lost her three years ago. It's why his friends were now risking their lives to help him, just so he could free her now.

It's a wonder anyone came around him. He was radioactive; anyone who got near him got hurt or worse. Card had said Fiona would ruin his life, but the truth was he had ruined hers. Why did she, why did anyone think he was worth the trouble?

He finished off his sandwich in two quick bites and washed it down with the last of the coffee. Fiona would have slapped him for thinking that, never mind saying it, but it was because of him that she was waiting for him in prison instead of here to administer her own brand of shock therapy. Then he remembered her words:

_At times, your job has made it hard to be with you, but it's never shaken my faith in you. I can't let you ruin anyone's life to save mine. I have to force you to tell what you know. If you don't, you won't be the man I loved. Do the right thing._

Was he still the man she loved? Would he ever be able to do the right thing?

()()(()()()()()()()

She was sitting handcuffed to the table in a holding cell next to the non-contact visitation room, resisting the urge to scream with all that was within her, while a large hunk of heavily muscled humanity in a familiar blue uniform stood in the corner watching her.

Soon Michael would be on the other side of that door. The anticipation of that alone was enough to make her antsy without being chained up with someone staring at her and no possibility of moving, no way to wipe that sneering half smile off his face. It reminded her way too much of her interrogation by Jason Bly.

That she remembered Bly had been understatement. Clearly she did, though she wasn't entirely sure what was on her face when he'd said that, but she knew what was in her head. The memories, of sitting naked in Michael's bed, half covered with a sheet, slowly lowering the gun as Bly had openly stared at her, and then watching as he handed Mr. Westen his burn notice dossier, flooded her mind again.

"_Stop it!__"_ she commanded. She'd been thinking about days of Belfast past so much lately, between what she was doing to stay alive and the ever present ache of missing him. Any memory that involved Michael's abandonment of her, whether to pursue his burn notice or his CIA reinstatement, immediately fed her fears about losing him altogether. What if he couldn't get her out? What if he was killed?

She remembered the horror that had swept through her when Bly had presented her with Michael's alleged autopsy report. Just seeing his name on that form alone-

"_I wish you didn't have to find out this way, but I thought you should know before you throw your life away for him."_

Was that what she was doing?

"_Enough!"_ she ordered. She was tired and she was run down from lack of proper food. That textured vegetable protein they were fed instead of meat was intended to keep the population docile as well as save the FBOP money. It was difficult to maintain her edge without proper nutrition and rest. She'd been a decade and half younger at least the last time she'd tried to live on nothing but adrenaline.

Suddenly, a buzzer sounded, muffled by the concrete block, plexi-glass and steel that separated them. _He_ was on the other side of the wall; she'd see him soon.

()()()()()()

He thought he had prepared himself, utilized that mental discipline, those years of trade craft and training to steel himself for what was to come, but the dreadful sinking feeling that had crept over him as he approached the facility and then he wound his way through the various layers of security was hard to shake. How could such a lively, vibrant woman as Fiona survive long in this sparse grey hell hole?

He thought about the times he'd been imprisoned recently, about doing time in Dade County lock-up, about going to prison to protect Sam's friend. How he wished he could give Fiona the same sloppy wet kiss she'd given him, but he knew as he sat down in front of that large piece of safety glass that it was a vain wish.

_The worst part really is what they make you give up in here. It's not just your freedom. They take your dignity, your hope. So you give up and do what you're told and you know how good I am at doing what I'm told__._

The closest he could come in recent memory to what she must be going through was when he'd been in Vaughn holding cell, waiting and wondering who had him, what they wanted and if he would ever get out. He remembered trembling in her arms as the feelings of his desolation and loneliness had washed over him again. Of course, that was right after Fiona had smacked him for pouting.

He watched as his own reflection in the glass started to tear up at the knowledge that he'd take another slap right now, just to be able to have contact with her again.

Locking his fingers together and setting his jaw, he looked away at the floor to his left and tried to clear his mind and shore up his crumbling self control. He didn't want Fiona to see him like this. She didn't need the stress of worrying about _him_.

The discordant noise of a loud buzzer derailed his train of thought and turned his attention back to the window in front of him.

()()()()()()

A door opened and suddenly she was there. A hulk of guard behind her closed the door and then they were alone. Except that they weren't, but those who were watching from elsewhere didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was sitting now on the other side of four inches of bullet proof lexan, but she was alive and he was there.

They stared at one another. His mouth hung open and her face remained blank and impassive. There were no words for this moment. He nodded and tried to force a pleasant smile onto his face, but it soon crumbled and he was biting his lips in a vain effort to stem the tidal wave of emotion welling in his heart or water welling up in his eyes. For her part, Fiona was in shock. She simply couldn't believe that he was really here and the feelings writ plainly on his face stunned her.

He reached for the phone and she did the same. Fiona had more success in forming a smile than he'd had, though her own eyes were starting to glisten. She'd expected him to be worried, but the other things she saw in his eyes made her long to comfort him, to break the tension.

"Now you see why I never wear orange," she said with a hint of her old humor barely masking the tremor in her voice.

"You look beautiful," he rasped. She looked exhausted and frightened. He could see it in her eyes and he could tell she'd lost weight, even in that over-sized burnt orange uniform. But she alive and there was nothing more beautiful than that.

The tears started leaking from his eyes and spilling over onto his cheeks of their own volition, just as they had last night, though mercifully there were less of them. He didn't care. The only important thing right now was her.

"I'm going to get your out," he promised her in a rush. She needed to know that. She needed to know that he was fighting for her and not to give up. "I promise you that… and we're getting close. The CIA-"

"I love you, too, Michael," she told him, tears forming in her own eyes in response to his. The last time they had cried together like this was over bomb that was meant to end both their lives. She needed him to hear those words, needed him to know that _right now_, before anything else could come between them. They'd wasted enough of their lives talking about other people, thinking about other circumstances and dealing with other things.

"We don't have much time. I don't want to talk about that." They only had two hours. She didn't want to waste of a second of it on the outside world. There was too much of that waiting for her on the other side of that door when this small slice of heaven smack dab in the middle of hell would be taken from her.

"You know what I was thinking about the other day?" he asked tightly, as the water flowed freely down his face. She nodded for him to continue, still finding it hard to find her own voice as she stared at all the emotions being so vividly displayed. This was the Michael that she'd thought she'd known long ago, who didn't keep his feelings to himself, who lived and loved with abandon, the one she thought loved her.

"Remember that dingy little bar in Belfast, the Black Sand Pub?"

Recognition flashed in her eyes, which were quickly becoming as wet as his.

"You mean where we first met?"

"And I made the mistake of asking…" But it hadn't been a mistake. He meant to approach her, had meant to ask her for a dance. He'd done it to further his mission, but it had turned into so much more. "Would ya like t'dance? And ya pulled a snub nosed revolver on me," his voice morphed into the lilting tones of Michael McBride, though it was as tear soaked as Michael Westen's voice had been.

Fiona clutched the phone, feeling herself slipping into the past along with him. "Tha' I did. And you said-"

Michael was laughing and crying at the same time. "I assume tha's a yes?"

The Irishwoman closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the handset. She was sobbing as she held onto to the sound of his voice, the precious memories they invoked as she gave herself permission to relax, to not pay attention to her surroundings, to not be on high alert, to let go of everything she had been holding in, holding onto, holding back, and lose herself in another time and another place with the only man she'd ever loved.

And so they talked, talking in code as they had back in the day. And they wept, tears of joy and of sorrow. And they reminisced, finding the release they both so desperately needed, for those precious two hours. It was the food they had been starving for, the strength they required to hold on, repairing the connection that had been frayed and tested, but never broken. They had survived a decade apart, seeing one another only here and there over those intervening years. They would survive this, too. They had to. There _was_ no other alternative.

They pressed their hands one upon the other on the glass and stared into each others eyes, willing all the love and the warmth they had between them to penetrate the cold barrier.

And he let her know that he loved her, that he had always loved her and that he had never stopped thinking about her. It was dangerous to say out loud on a monitored line, but she was already in there _because_ someone knew that he loved her. He needed her to know it and she needed to hear to be able to hold on.

So he told her, no matter how many lies he'd told her before, had told himself for years, about how and why they couldn't be together, he never stopped loving her, that he couldn't stop loving her. Even when he'd tried to leave her, tried to push her away all those times for her own good, it had been because he loved her. And right before the buzzer sounded, he said those precious words to her that she'd been waiting to hear for so very long.

()()()()(()()())(()

**A/N: Wow, almost forgot to add the note! Much love to the PCC and CJ and many thanks for Matt Nix for creating such wonderful characters which none of us own but all love to play with! Thanks as always for all the reviews, alerts and fav's that are truly, truly appreciated. Look, guys, I made the stack! Hoo-rah!**


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